


Sweet, Dear, Tempting Mischiefs

by Shachaai



Series: For A Muse Of Fire [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Historical, Horseback Riding, Outdoor Sex, there's a war on in the background and you wouldn't be able to tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whitehall, England. May, 1672. Two young people, Nations, so in love they're ridiculous. And, fancy clothes be damned, romantically having sex up against a tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet, Dear, Tempting Mischiefs

**Author's Note:**

> Where did this one come from? To be absolutely frank, I had an idea about f!England in red riding clothes getting taken up against a tree, and everything else built itself around that. I’ve had this fic in my ‘to finish’ folder for so long I scarcely remember when I first began to write it. Despite the amount of research it took, and all my yelling at it, I have loved writing every minute of this pile of smutty schmoop, and it’s very close to my heart still. I hope it can bring some of the joy I got writing it to those who read it, and please let me know if you like it! I’m hardly done with these two idiots yet.  
> With _endless_ thanks to Eden, Hoof, Meep and Hitsu, who have nobly suffered listening to me ramble about historical politics, monarchs and fashion without a word of complaint (except for maybe when I used ‘Anglo’ to refer to all of what is now Great Britain. Sorry, Meep. Love you, Meep. Viva la Scotland?), and supportively went ‘they’re so in love it’s GROSS.’ Also thanks to Hitsu (who took me around the Scottish National Portrait Gallery), and Meep and Clay (who didn’t fall asleep or even tell me to get a move on on said trip to the Portrait Gallery when I hung around the Stuart galleries for an unreasonable amount of time making notes).
> 
> Fem!England’s appearance is around that of a 17-19 year old in this, whilst Portugal’s is a few years older.

_May, 1672  
The Court at the Palace of Whitehall, London, in the Kingdom of England_

 

 

They find a private corner together in one of the palace’s main side-rooms – once they have politely turfed a frustrated would-be poet ( _no,_ they have not yet found an acceptable English rhyme for _Lisbon_ ) out of it, that is –, tucked up against a window with a curtain’s drape half hiding them from view. The spring sunlight touches England’s uplifted face warmly (she is still so much shorter than Portugal is, for all she’s shot up like a sapling – _again –_ since he saw her last, and Portugal would suggest she wear taller heels if only he didn’t _know_ she would promptly follow his advice and then blithely grind those heels into his foot), and she smiles when he lifts her hand to kiss, holding it clasped afterwards against his cheek.

He would kiss her hair, her mouth, instead – but their _private_ corner is only really private enough for quiet conversation, not amorous advances. England (probably) would not thank him for kissing her in full sight of the crowds at her sovereign’s Court – even if they _are_ a little out of the way of the gossips so fascinated with the mysterious ‘Lady Kirkland’ (and with a fair view of the gardens) –, for all Portugal rather _longs_ to bury his hands in the golden ringlets tumbling down around her face as he brings her mouth up to his own. It has been a while, and the way she looks up at him now...

England wears her curls much longer and more loosely than seems to be the fashion for her countrywomen. For all she always claims she has no _time_ to always be keeping up with the impracticalities of female fashion the lapse, in this case, makes her look rather charmingly feminine, her hair spilling down over her bare shoulders and softening her edges, sun-touched gold on white skin and the creamy white satin of her bodice.

Portugal likes the look on her, likes the soft moonish glow of health she now exudes instead of the pain that had creased her forehead less than a decade before from the fire that had ravaged her busy London, her heart. He murmurs it against her knuckles as he kisses her stolen fingers again, but England’s smile only turns wry, and she shakes her head. Sceptic.

“I think you have a complex where women are concerned, love,” she says.

“Only for the ones I already adore,” Portugal assures her, and has to step in closer, England’s skirts rustling like a sigh against his legs, to just barely catch the lowness of her laugh.

Portugal spares a moment of mental thanks that English fashions have evolved so very differently this past century from those on the Iberian peninsula, for, if the women in England were all to wear the ridiculously wide farthingales that Portugal’s own women wear, _England_ would scarcely fit in the corner they have taken themselves to, let alone _him,_ and she would probably do him some great injury with the edged hoops beside.

(Then again, that thought assumes England would even wear female garb at _all_ were it currently like the Portuguese style – which does not, in brief retrospect, seem very likely. England, the woman, is all too quick to abandon her skirts altogether when female fashion becomes too impractical or inconvenient for her purpose, donning the garb of men and for all the world seeming to be nothing but a rather elfin, fair-faced young man.

The switch in clothing brings its own share of problems, of course, but most of them are for England’s _lovers._ Portugal, rather ruefully, has found himself branded with the labels of _pederast_ and _sodomite_ on more than one occasion whilst dallying with his fellow Nation when she has been in men’s clothes. Neither label is, he will admit, of course, entirely _inaccurate –_ although it seems somewhat unfair to be applying humanity’s labels to beings like them caught between the earth and angels -, but he is most wounded because both labels are at their _most_ inaccurate when he is with England.)

“Inglaterra,” Portugal says softly. He’s smiling; he can feel it lifting his cheeks, the crook of it hidden against the back of England’s hand, between his own fingers. He has so many words, sweet, in his heart that the only way to give them voice is to start with the most beloved, ducking his head yet closer to England’s to make their little sunlit window world more secret for them, more safe.

“You look like a little boy when you smile like that,” England tells him, just as soft, but his smile seems to have coaxed hers out further from where it was hiding behind the veil of her lashes, her green gaze very warm. She takes her hand back from him, finger by finger, and then slides it slow down the throb of his pulse until she can join it with her other one at his covered throat, making a great show of adjusting the large ribbon bow that ties his cravat. “You come in as rumpled as one too. Are you not, as my senior, supposed to be setting me some sort of example?”

It is the work of seconds for Portugal to lay his hands atop England’s again, both of them this time, upon his breast, and, when he brings them solemnly together between his own, they could – although the days when such a thing was at all likely vanished long before the grandparents of this current mortal generation were even thought of – be praying together. (The good Lord, in all His infinite and merciful goodness, has allowed him much worse blasphemies; now He can surely grant Portugal this.)

England’s eyebrows are raised, more in amusement at Portugal’s persistence, it seems, than anything else. “I _am_ setting you an example,” Portugal promises her, quite sincerely, and smiles charmingly into the straight gaze of her mirthful disbelief. “A very, very, very bad one.”

He’s pleased when England laughs again – louder this time, and ringing since she cannot cover her mouth when he has possession of both her hands. She steps forward instead, crowding them close and comfortable, and tries to bury the sound in his chest with her face before too many stare over at them, but Portugal does not care. Her laughter still vibrates warm through his ribcage, along with what he swears is a very fond-sounding _idiot._

The insult just makes Portugal grin, as does the view he has beneath his chin of England’s shaking shoulders and bowed head, and he gives in at last to what his impulse has been ever since he first saw England across her busy Court that day, dropping an affectionately chaste kiss upon her crown. Even if anyone is watching it is worth it – England is perfectly capable of defending her own honour (as she likes to remind him), and if ‘Sir Kirkland’ feels it necessary to defend the virtue of his ‘lady sister’ by challenging him to a duel, at dawn, in the privacy of one of their quarters so they can pursue their argument to the full extent of its _necessary_ physicality without any outside interference, so be it.

Somehow, Portugal shall simply have to resign himself to his terrible fate.

Unfortunately, Portugal isn’t spared much time for his _earnest_ resignation. It barely seems like minutes have passed since they first – poorly – sequestered themselves away, but already there is a polite, meaningful _cough_ from beside them, beyond the curtain, and the presence of a well-dressed woman Portugal vaguely recognises for usually being in the attachment of the English Queen, his own Caterina, albeit on the fringe edges.

The human is young, perhaps even younger than England’s appearance gives _her_ to seeming-be, and she cannot have advanced too far into the intimate royal circle.

England steps back at once (after one pink-cheeked _glance,_ Portugal relinquishes her hands with a sigh), and the Queen’s lady dips into a brief curtsey, seeing she has her Nation’s attention.

“Lady Kirkland, please forgive the intrusion,” not likely, “but Her Majesty has requested the presence of your companion, if he has no pressing business.”

England just busies herself with – apparently idly – smoothing out the creases Portugal seems to have left in her gown, the long skirts flowing out when she moves a little away from the window. Easing her softness out. “Did Her Majesty not give you his name?”

The Queen’s lady goes pink. Interesting. “Regretfully she did not, my lady.”

England pauses, and glances up from her own skirts. “Then how do you know you request the presence of the correct man on Her Majesty’s behalf?” The wo- the _girl_ before them fidgets, glances up at Portugal, glances to England’s face, and then glances aside again. Something that must pique England’s curiosity as much or Portugal’s – or perhaps, just her natural impatience -, for England’s next query is more brusque. “ _Well_?”

“…My lady,” the Queen’s lady is going a darker colour yet (do _all_ the English always turn so red under heat, be it from society or the sun? If so, then England truly has inherited her people’s traits), and Portugal’s heart goes out, a little, to her. It is no easy thing to be under England’s narrowing scrutiny, “Her Majesty told me to find _you_ , and then to request the presence of the dark-haired man who would undoubtedly be with you, your companion. She said,” and here the poor young courtier quails a little, more flickering nervous glances that do more to amuse Portugal than stir his empathy for her plight, since all of them are levelled up at _him_. Ah, he recognises those looks. “Her Majesty said I should know he was the correct man because he would be – or at least, he would _think_ he would be – the most handsome foreigner in the room.”

…That added clause _wounds._ Caterina seems to have long-since left the days she spent in a convent behind her, if she is making comments like _that_ about the much-maligned Nation of her birth.

England makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like another stifled laugh – which promptly disappears behind her fist (Portugal should have _never_ returned her hands to her, she does terrible things with them when they are in her own keeping) and turns into a cough when Portugal pointedly _looks_ at the twitch of her almost-smile.

“He’s certainly a foreigner,” England says to her citizen, so _very_ graciously (she could at _least_ have also given him the _handsome_ ), and has _just_ about gotten her smile under control again when she lowers her fist to spread her palm across her bodice, solid against her stomach. She glances back to Portugal, and Portugal obligingly wholly retrieves himself at last from behind the curtain that _had_ been their accomplice for such a short, sweet time. “But how did Her Majesty know you would be with me?”

Provided he isn’t set upon by some _other_ foreign ‘dignitary,’ there are few places Portugal ever _is_ when he is in the Kingdom of England save at the Nation’s side, with his own people, or in his own private rooms. He has little need to spy upon a country who supports his break from Spain, and, with so much anti-Catholic sentiment still threading so unpredictably through the English masses, it is best, when he leaves the Court, to go out accompanied by either England or one of her siblings, when they are about. But to _say_ as much to England, when there is a human girl very much listening in…

“Am I really so predictable?” England continues, and solves Portugal’s problem by creating a new one. “I am too young to be predictable, surely?”

Portugal baulks. “You are asking _me?_ ”

England just levelly meets his gaze – she _is_ asking him. Of course she is. Is there even an answer to that that a woman, never mind a Nation, likes to hear?

Portugal keeps his deliberate charm deep inside of him, situated somewhere between his tact and his confidence (with both liable to get injured when the one in the middle dramatically fails). He smiles. “You are as predictable as the ocean.”

England’s eyes narrow at him; sometimes she is too shrewd for her own good. “The tides keep a _schedule_ , dear heart.” Her voice is only a shade above _flat._

“True,” Portugal agrees, and bridges the gap between him and England again with a stride. Physical proximity has always been a convincing argument with the Nation before him; islands are not always so used to company. “But the tides _are_ only part of it. Many a sailor would pay dear to be able to predict the winds upon the open sea, the sudden squalls –”

England makes a face at him, clearly forgetting about the Queen’s girl with them entirely. “I am a _squall_ now?”

Diplomatically: “You are all the excitement of one.”

Alas for Portugal’s metaphor, these past few decades, civil wars excepting, have made a fine (not always entirely legitimate) sailor out of England, and all the sea’s changeable quirks are growing as familiar to her blood as they already are to Portugal’s. She too has crossed the Atlantic upon the wildly rocking deck of a ship, ocean and heart roaring in her ears. Her lips have cracked with salt; her hair has bleached with sun, and the sunlight and the starlight on the waves beneath eternity have stirred her soul – and in part, forever, kept it.

So England knows what she is talking about. “There is a thin line between _excitement_ and _fear of imminent death._ ”

“I know,” Portugal agrees, perfectly sanguine. (England’s face suggests she would very much like him to explain which part of her statement that he, exactly, _knows –_ but if she’d wanted an answer to _that,_ perhaps she should have also allowed him the _handsome_ earlier.)

He looks back to the human with them, who looks immediately relieved that the two before her have stopped…whatever they were doing, and smiles. Caterina will no doubt wish to hear about how her brothers, and the country of her birth, are doing, and it is nothing to speak with a dear one who still loves him so well.

“I will attend.”

“…But a moment,” says England, laying her hand on his arm. Portugal pauses, glances to her, the sun warm on his back and making his pupils shrink against the light that catches on the white of England’s gown. “Tomorrow noon, will you come riding with me?”

It seems rather soon to be making plans for the next day unless England doesn’t plan to see him again until then, and Portugal’s smile fades from his face. “I will not see you again today?” He had hoped for otherwise.

England shakes her head. “I have business to attend to. Letters.”

Ah. International politics then, which is pressing enough when there is always a war on amongst their kind. “In French, or in Dutch?”

“Regrettably: _both_.” England makes another face, a curious development on her usual _ugh, France_ one that pulls in all her most recent squabbling with the Dutch Republic with it, and speaks rather eloquently to Portugal’s own current feelings towards their opportunistic Dutch kin.

Normally, Portugal would offer to invite himself to his lady’s bedroom that _night_ at that point – but they are both sadly still in another’s company, so he settles for sighing. Perhaps another time.

“Then let us take lunch with us,” he says, as England visibly brightens (had she really thought he’d say _no?_ To her, to time with her, and to horse-riding?), “and we can make an afternoon of it.”

 

 

 

 

The very early morning brings a fine mist of rain over London, but by lunchtime the weather has cleared – and, indeed, has actually become quite fine, the sun warm overhead and drying out the earth. Portugal would be thankful for remembering to don his hat to protect his eyes from the light – if only he were still _able_ to wear his hat. Barely a few minutes after they had hit the empty open fields beyond the city England had pulled away from him upon her mount (a pretty chestnut mare who is, she had assured him, one of the results of her king’s attempts to restart the horse-breeding that the English had been well-known for before their little monarchical ‘ _hiccup’_ ), proposing, with a rather wicked smile, that they race.

She hadn’t waited for his answer before loosing rein and tearing off, and Portugal had been forced to urge his own dark mare into a gallop – that she hadn’t been all too keen on beginning after her previous amble – just to keep England within range of his voice, his flyaway hat stuffed hastily under one arm.

“A race to _where?_ ” he had called to England’s back, ignoring how his own hair blew back into his face as his mount picked up her pace, hooves thudding into the ground.

“Oh, _heaven!”_ England had called back to him. Since _her_ hat seemed to be staying on her head by the wonder of ladies’ hairpins she had had a free hand to lift from the reins, and she had flung it and her white ruffled sleeve out to gesture towards the faraway horizon.

God’s canvas renders an English springtime in glowing greens and blues, the fluffy whiteness of daisies and clouds – beautiful, truly, _effervescent,_ but no afterlife, for it made and makes Portugal feel too _alive._ His heart beat in thudding time with each quick clap of his horse’s hooves to the grass, every nerve in him alight to the shock of each impact with the ground, the windchill reddening his cheeks, the tenseness of the muscles in his legs gripping him to his seat.

 _“Neither_ of us will be going there,” he’d insisted.

England’s breathless laugh had floated back to him, and her hands had pulled more at the reins to slow her mare a little, so that Portugal could bring his own mount up nearer beside her.

“Then where?” she asks now, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked from the breeze. A wig might have protected her from some of the wind but England (and Portugal himself) loathes the things, so her long hair today is pulled back from her face with naught but a simple ribbon beneath the rather jaunty set of her hat, yesterday’s curls now waves down her back. “Shall it be to hell with us instead?”

Both their horses slow, eased down to a canter, and then, gently, down to a trot.

“I think a simple landmark in _this_ life might suffice,” Portugal says to England’s answering grin, casting his gaze about the landscape around them. Without the wind streaming so much in his face he feels almost a little too-warm in the dark blue clothes he’d chosen to wear for riding – despite all England’s insistence she _does_ get fair weather in her country, it still catches him by surprise. “That we can start for _together_ this time, rather than a _cheat_ galloping off with no warning ahead.”

England’s grin only grows wider, a return of her familiar wicked sparkle, and she leans towards him in her saddle. “What sort of noble gentleman accuses his lady of cheating?”

“What sort of noble lady cheats in the _first_ place?” is Portugal’s retort, but it lacks all ire when his tone is so fond. He expects and wants little else from his companion; England has all the cunning of the foxes her people like to hunt, and it makes her lively company when she’s in the mood to play.

Thankfully, since his Union with Spain has fallen apart (however much Spain had malingered over recognising it), England plays with him with her sharpest claws _away._ She’s getting stronger, a lot of Western Europe can attest, and well-placed swipes from her paw hurt a great deal more than they used to when she was just a skinny wide-eyed wildchild with a bow almost bigger than herself and mud on her nose.

The centuries have passed and England has grown up, somewhere along the way. _Dragging_ herself up rather angrily at times, kicking everyone taller than her (and there have been so _many_ taller) in the shins if they antagonised her. She cast off ‘skinny’ for ‘slim,’ still with the look and the swift foot of the wild does that throng her hunting parks, and the child became a woman, a Nation still growing but acknowledged _grown_. A maiden to those that look at her and don’t know her for what she _is,_ appearing no more than seventeen years old, eighteen at most – still with the ferocious temper of her long, long ago childhood (it is easier, at times, to argue with the ocean), with the pout of her youth, the glare, and those wild, lovely green-grass eyes.

Portugal had missed her beginning. He had missed quite a few of her first chapters as well, until she’d accidentally stumbled into the blood and dust of his affairs with all the grace of a newborn foal and rather brusquely offered to help him assert his independence. She’d been a curious little thing then (he’d thought her a boy at first, partially aided by the fact she’d had her hair cropped close to her skull, and she’d hardly been able to look him in the eye for more than five seconds at any one time. She’d tailed about after him in their spare hours, telling him stories about northern knights, vengeful lake goddesses and fae dancing in forgotten woods dark and deep. He’d only understood about one word in every five she’d come out with, of course, and even _less_ when she’d gotten embarrassed and started waving her hands at him – one of his own knights, more familiar then with the odd syllables of the English tongue, had later explained that the little foreign _menina_ (?!)like him had been trying to tell him that she thought he was as kind and beautiful as the angels of God, and surely God would not ever let the cause of one of His angels fail), and she is (hopefully) his curious not-quite-so-little thing now, both of them marked alike with blood and salt, together for the rest of the story the Heavens write out for them to follow.

Now they are alone, yesterday’s promising moonflower is a vivacious rider in red – perhaps the biblical one, though England’s crimson coat and petticoats are embroidered with beautiful golden lions, the three that, passant guardant, still make her coat of arms. With her flag, it is lucky that red suits her so well: blood and foxes and licking fire, royalty and the red, red rose –

“There,” says England, pushing herself up in her stirrups to point again, this time to a very definite copse of trees in the distance, a little uphill from where they are. “We should lunch there, provided the ground isn’t too damp. There’s a freshwater pool for the horses and shade, and I rather enjoy the view.”

“You wish to race there?” Portugal asks her, already looping his reins more tightly in his hand. His mare raises her head, cocking an ear back at him in curiosity – oh, she’s _interested_ this time? How useful. “What will you give me when I win?”

“Oh, when _you_ win?”

“Sim, querida, when _I_ win,” Portugal asserts, already squeezing his thighs to urge his mount into a faster gait, nudging her ahead whilst England is still distracted, “or do you believe you are the only one here who cheats?”

England’s face is a picture. “Who ch- _Portugal!_ ”

She makes an indignant sound like a cat that has just had its tail trodden upon when she realises what Portugal is up to – but by then his horse is already off and pulling well away from her, and Portugal, laugh bubbling out of him, must turn away from her indignation to face the goal ahead.

Really, Portugal needs the head start. His mount, bought for convenience on landing, is made more for endurance than a sprint, and though he has her strength to his advantage, _he_ is a far heavier rider than England (yes, even with all the volume of England’s petticoats). England’s mare has obvious better breeding, both for racing and in general, and England –

England is already drawing level.

“Perhaps you should tell me what you will give me when _I_ win!” she dares him, voice raised about the sound of their horses’ hooves. The taunt of it thrills his blood, stirs ill-timed interest in his breeches as possibilities flash. A metre or so more of thundering hooves and her mare is nudging ahead; Portugal should have asked to borrow one of _her_ courtiers’ horses.

“And what could I give _you_?” he asks, having to raise his own voice as she begins to pulls away ahead, the copse much closer than before. “A new dress, an emerald, the head of _França_ on a plate?” God, England would make a most viciously _interesting_ Salome (and the thought of her as a dancing girl may haunt him in the _sweetest_ ways on lonesome nights).

“That depends, my love,” England asks of him, mirthful once more, “is it a _silver_ plate?” (She _is_ into heads at the moment.)

Low against his horse’s back, Portugal cannot help but grin. “ _No_ , I am told blood makes those rust terribly!”

He has lost. They are still a little way from the copse England had pointed out but he has lost, for she and her horse have pulled far enough ahead – and constantly pulling farther – there will be little chance of catching up to her, and it feels cruel to push his own earnest steed to truly try.

The grass rustles as his horse’s hooves pound through it, dirt, torn grass and dandelion clocks releasing their puffs into the air. Beneath him, his mare’s muscles stretch and pull, still going after the chestnut and her crimson rider ahead, and Portugal’s own breath comes quicker as they head uphill, feeling once more the cool wind in his hair and watching it flow through his horse’s long mane, the warm sun on his back and all the world streaming by in a vivid bright blur of springtime.

England gets there first. Portugal had expected it, but it is still a shame because he derives a great deal of amusement from those times England decides she’s going to ride astride in _skirts,_ and then has to swing herself off of her mount after her ride without getting a great deal of fluffed-up fabric to her face. Of course, when she’s in public, there is usually someone by to help lift her down, but even when there is someone by to assist the task is still a tremendous one – and England must bite her tongue and be a courteous lady, rather than curse her petticoat to hell and back.

Her dismounting is already complete by the time Portugal reaches the copse (she’s quicker when she doesn’t have to try and be elegant about it), leading her horse inwards to the nearby pool to drink. Portugal joins her.

His own dismounting is easy – a quick swing of his legs before his boots thud into the earth, the grass verdant and springy underfoot, and his troublesome hat stuffed impatiently into a saddlebag – and his mare is happy enough to be tied on a long lead to a tree branch near the water, close enough to drink her fill and then retreat into the shade offered by the foliage from the sun.

The rest, really, can wait; England, noting his actions, is already copying them, and she stands so close by as she does so it is a wonder she doesn’t comment on the sound of his heartbeat, it seems so loud in Portugal’s own ears. He can feel it in his chest, in his throat, in his fingertips, his body still thrumming with energy from laughter and the ride, his nose twitching at a faint spice of cinnamon in the air.

“Perhaps I shall have to gift you with a new horse come Christmas,” says England. She’s smiling when she looks up from her knots to him, a teasing glance from under the upturned brim of her hat. “I shall have to put in a request, but if any of our better mares foal closer to the time -”

Right now, Portugal does not much care about Christmas foals. His blood is still hot from the race, his heart madly thumping, and he’s already half-hard when he yields to two days’ worth of temptations and seizes England’s shoulders, cutting her off mid-sentence when he ducks his head and kisses her hard.

England makes a startled sound, her breath rushing out against Portugal’s lips, but her hands rise from their shocked resting place by her sides, so Portugal lets his own grip on her loosen, his eyes drifting shut in anticipation of her arms in their familiar twine around his neck.

Instead, England makes a fist and thumps his head.

Portugal jerks back from the kiss with a wounded noise, taken aback. If he had thought his attentions unwanted he would have never laid a hand on England, but these are all things they have done before.

He looks down to England, still in his hold, for explanation – and she, her hands lowered again, already a pretty flustered pink and seeing his gaze on her once more, provides.

“You caught me breathless.”

Portugal relaxes again – he has given no great offence – and smiles, letting every ounce of his intentions show. “Meu amor,” he teases, enjoying watching England go a darker red, “I intended to catch you a great deal more than _that_.”

“I’m _sure_ ,” says England, and shifts her shoulders meaningfully so that Portugal bemusedly lets her go. He misses her mouth already.

England moves away from the horses and – more distressingly – away from _him,_ petticoat rustling in the long grass as she heads a little deeper into the copse. Unsure exactly what she wants, Portugal stays in place, watching her as she reaches up to unpin her hat, more than a little confused when she does nothing but toss it aside and turn around to face him again.

“Well?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

“…‘Well’?” Portugal echoes, more than a little lost.

“Well I am not breathless _now,_ Portugal,” says England, and oh, _oh,_ an invitation does wonders for the soul, his boots swallowing up the unwanted distance in a few long strides so he can sweep England up against him and kiss her again.

The second kiss is gentler. Portugal holds her, holds her gently, curls both his palms at England’s nape and cradles her head between them, easing his lips chastely over hers, gently, gently, until hers part for him with a soundless sigh. Their noses bump and one, or both, of them huffs out a laugh, Portugal pecking the corner of England’s mouth lightly, sweetly, and nuzzling against her cheek until her eyes, soft now, flutter open to look at him.

“ _Olá_ ,” he murmurs quietly, smiling against England’s mouth – and it must be infectious, for her lips lift against his own as she nudges up into him, returning his kiss to the sensitive skin between his mouth and cheek.

“Olá yourself, idiot,” England murmurs back to him, and Portugal laughs, kissing her full on the mouth.

His arousal is still very much present, but it is currently a warm, lazy thing in his belly, a cat sunning itself on an afternoon windowsill. It is therefore with pleasant languor he finds the ribbon binding back England’s hair and tugs on it, pulling the long strip of cloth free. Some of her hair comes with it and Portugal lifts that to kiss as well, pleased to bask the cat some more in the golden sunbeam caught in the strands, before England, rather pink-cheeked, rolls her eyes at him, grabbing her ribbon back and stuffing it inelegantly into one of the pockets of her coat.

Only temporarily thwarted Portugal promptly buries both his hands in England’s now-loose hair, sifting the fine strands between his fingers at the back of her neck to another flushed _idiot._

“You have already called me that,” he teases, and presses his lips to England’s temple fondly, enjoying her warmth against him, the smooth silken fall of her hair. It puts him in mind, where the sun strikes it, of thread of cloth of gold, but it is softer, finer, and more easily wound about his fingers as he plays with it idly, coaxing England to turn her face up to his once more so he can kiss her again, sliding her mouth open with flickering touches of his tongue.

England’s own hands find his coat and push it open. It does not go far – the ruffled shirts that are currently all the fashion for _both_ sexes when riding have large sleeves, and the cuffs, however, large, catch on them as the cloth attempts to move down the arms. Portugal, too, is disinclined to assist; it would mean abandoning his grasp of England’s hair, England’s head, feeling the vibrations of her moan under his thumbs when he strokes her throat and all but tilts her backwards in a deeper kiss. His dark blue coat, therefore, hangs rather awkwardly off of his shoulders – but it seems far enough for England, who gives up pushing at the front to spread her palms over his doublet instead, her hands kneading like a cat at his chest.

“Are you trying to undress me?” he asks her when they part for air, liking the way she continues to thoughtlessly knead at him, the warm pressure from the heel of her palms felt through the layers of his clothes to the skin beneath. His grin grows a little more mischievous. “ _Here_?”

As though that hadn’t been in _his_ plans anyway –

England actually pouts at him, before licking her swelling lips to return some of the moisture he’d taken from them with his own. “You stole my ribbon.”

Portugal blinks. “I did not know we were _trading._ Here,” he reluctantly looses England at last, reaching up to pull off his coat the rest of the way. England steps back to avoid getting hit with the fabric and bumps into a nearby tree – when _had_ they gotten so close to the trunk of that one? – so Portugal drops it to the side, at her feet. That leaves him, perfectly decent, in his boots, breeches, shirt, and sleeveless doublet – or decent enough until he reaches back to pull out the ribbon tying back his _own_ hair, shaking his brown curls loose and then offering their former bonds out to his watching lover. “A coat for a ribbon, was it?”

England colours – it is a wonder she is not one for fainting, with all the tight stays women must wear and the way blood so often rushes to her head (but she smacks Portugal when he says that, and so he is, for now, just putting the vividness of the colour down to her fair complexion) – with realisation, but then she straightens, tilting her chin up rather arrogantly to stare him down, every inch his lovely little lioness.

“In case you didn’t notice,” she says somewhat archly, and gestures to the long row of buttons down her front, “I left my lady’s maid back at the palace.”

Portugal’s breath catches at that, but his grin is all teeth. He drops his ribbon, unnecessary now, and fills his hands with England instead, pushing her further back against the tree-trunk behind her and cupping her breasts, flattened as they are under the restraint of her clothes. He would kiss England slowly, flutter kisses to her lips, her nose, her eyelashes and undo each button of her coat one by leisurely one until she sighs for him again – but her hunger burns as bright as his and her impatience far exceeds it, and she grabs his cravat with the strength he sometimes forgets she has and practically _chokes_ him dragging him down to kiss.

The cinnamon Portugal smelled before is England’s perfume, he belatedly realises – spicy cinnamon and the earth of sweet musk. The scent is caught between her clothes and against her skin, dabs of hot headiness where her pulse beats hard through her body to his. England kisses like she means to devour him, and Portugal sinks into it, lets her fire stoke his own higher as his fingers fumble by touch alone to undo all her buttons. Skin made rough from salt and coarse ship-line catches on the gold leonine brocade but Portugal perseveres, distracted as he is with England’s teeth tugging at his bottom lip, the nails of one of her hands raking up from his nape mussing up his hair and making his scalp tingle.

He’s almost _yanking_ the last of the buttons open by the time he reaches her waist, her navel, pulling the coat apart – only to groan in frustration when he finds England has a sleeveless doublet on, buttoned high and embroidered to match her outer layers, beneath her coat. She has her white shirt on under that, and no doubt a stay and chemise on under _that._

“So many _layers,_ ” Portugal complains against her mouth, against her chin, unwilling to move away even to speak. He cannot get them _all_ off, not when they are outside like this and may need to redress in a hurry.

“So, _so_ many layers,” England agrees, with all the suffering of one who has had to put them all on.

Portugal just continues to grumble in his own tongue, pushing off her beautiful red coat to join his on the ground, and then follows it up by seizing her cravat. “ _This,_ ” he aggressively declares, already pulling at the bow keeping it neat, “is coming off at least.” He feels emotional.

“God, _yes,_ ” England agrees as both ribbon and cravat are discarded, and she is already reaching for him again, wrapping both arms around his neck.

The soft ruffles of her sleeves brush Portugal’s cheek, the damp heat of her mouth envelops his tongue, and when he mouths greedily at the now exposed skin of her throat her claws are raking him again, up his head, down his back, hard enough to make him shudder at the press of each finger and surge against England harder, grinding his hips against her, grinding England into the tree until every gasping breath of her chest press pushes hard against his own.

When her petticoat tangles around his legs Portugal simply shoves England’s skirts up atop his leg, pushes his leg between England’s thighs to keep them there. She arches against him, cups his arse to make him raise his leg higher, but Portugal just smirks to her throat, nipping at the leap of her pulse when he presses his knee _up_ at the apex of her thighs for too-brief an instant for her liking.

Above his head England snaps something medieval at him, but Portugal just chuckles, low and vibrating, continuing his biting kisses down her neck to the cutting sharpness of her collarbone. Even mad at him she still offers him her throat and he takes full advantage of it, pale pretty skin marked by his mouth, his teeth, like a necklace. “Is there something you _want,_ Inglaterra?”

Impatient, England attempts to grind _down_ – but _ah,_ Portugal’s hands are empty enough to grab her shoulders again, lift her high and pin her body to the trunk behind her, merely continuing to lazily lap at the skin of her throat as her snarl vibrates under his mouth. He rubs himself against her leg, her hip, just to stave off some of the _ache_ building in his belly, in his cock, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue before he casts his eyes back to England’s again, so bright with her desires and making him harder.

“You should tell me if there are things you want, amor,” he murmurs, and leans in to taste the spice of her next insult on her lips. He avoids the _snap_ of England’s teeth only by letting his knee rub up again between her legs where she is warmest and wanting as he kisses her, her mouth going slack against his in a breaking moan.

Portugal’s own mind is going cloudy with want, wanting her, and he breathes damp against her cheek, against the long curls of hair sticking to his skin, both brown and blonde, as he shifts his leg, lets England rock her hips against his thigh. She will slaughter him by pleasurably aching inches for this later and it is _worth_ it, for the needy noise she makes when he pushes up harder, for the pink arousal staining down her skin. _“Tell me._ ”

England just _sighs_ at him, shifting her head so the soft of their cheeks slide together in a slow, gentle caress, since the range of her hands is restricted by his hold on her upper arms. It’s a gentle moment and Portugal finds himself fascinated by the fluttering of her lashes, the way she yields into his touch – and the way her mouth then presses hard to his ear.

“Port,” England says lowly, quite simply, and sighs another delightful breath that sends a full-body shiver down his spine. _“Portugal._ ”

“Inglaterra -”

“I _swear_ ,” she says, and all her soft breathiness goes sliver-sharp and deadly, and still, _still_ that streaks down Portugal’s back like fire again, his face buried rather longingly in England’s neck, “by all that _either_ of us find holy, that if you do not stop teasing me _right now_ I will tear you a new hole the _second_ you put me down, drag you back to the palace and _fuck_ you in it.”

Portugal pauses. Thinks about it. “…Frankly, I am not sure whether that is incentive to give you what you want, or continue with what I am doing?”

England bites him.

Portugal doesn’t know whether he laughs or he groans at that – but it is probably both -, freeing England’s arms to tangle his fingers in her hair again as her teeth leave their own beautifully bruising mark in his throat, pulling her mouth back to his to lick the hot taste of her ire, the sharp flash of her tongue, all the sparks between them when she grows weary of him grinding himself against her hipbone and hooks one leg rather impetuously around his waist. Portugal goes to hike it higher, pull their hips hard and flush – only to turn aside from England’s demanding kiss with a hideously _frustrated_ sound when his hand discovers material ( _more_ material) beneath it, yet _another_ layer barring his skin from England’s skin.

(The next time he catches England in regular Court-wear, all the satin and exposed shoulders and the delicate flush of the top of her breasts, he is dragging her to the nearest _bedroom,_ not a window alcove, because her _riding clothes_ are doing terrible things to his li- well, maybe not his libido. That’s soaring. But they’re sorely testing his _patience._ )

Portugal makes a face, and tugs at the fine white linen beneath his palm as he runs his hand up England’s thigh, cloth completely covering the other Nation’s legs. “You’re wearing _hose._ ”

England lets her head fall back against the tree trunk, apparently just so she can _look_ at him. It’s a very unimpressed look, pink as she is. “You thought I’d go out riding in skirts _without_ wearing hose underneath?” She spreads her hands against his chest almost thoughtfully, pulling a little at his cravat. “Love, my idiot love, have you ever heard of _chafing?_ ”

“Chaff…?” As in, the wheat and the-

“ _Chafing,_ ” England corrects him, before clarifying: “Friction. It’s not comfortable.”

…It _does,_ now Portugal thinks about it, hurt a great deal more to go riding if there is no protection between skin and saddle, but since he himself wears breeches he had not really paid any mind to the plight faced by women before. Since most of the ones he knows that ride are of the gentry or above they’re scarcely the type to complain of being saddlesore in front of _him;_ it’s considered unseemly and unladylike – both to discuss aches in such a private location with less intimate acquaintances, and to complain.

Lost in thought, he must be making a too-thoughtful expression at England’s words, for the Nation herself takes her turn to make a face at _him,_ tugging at his cravat again to get his attention back, thoroughly incredulous. “You cannot _seriously_ be telling me that you’ve never thought about this before?”

Portugal is easily pulled back, led by body heat, by the young woman still pressed against him, and he shrugs, the motion rolling through him lazily, rocking his hips forward into England again. He’s still hard, busy thoughts or not, earlier passion simmering.

“But- but you’re _you!_ ”

One eyebrow raised: “And what does _that_ mean?”

“It means you’re-” England stalls herself, swallowing her words and going pink again as Portugal eyes her curiously, still smoothing his palm over England’s thigh. There are _many_ ways to end that sentence. “That doesn’t matter. You have _got_ to have had a roll in the hay in the stables with _someone_ before this. Before me. Multiple someones. You just-”

“Just-?” Portugal prods.

“ _Never mind.”_ Seemingly embarrassed, England hunches up into herself – into Portugal’s chest, since they’re so close, burying her face in his doublet, redder than ever. “Just _never mind._ ”

Made up of contradictions, England does these things to herself. (Not without cheerful assistance at times, but mostly by herself.) She has an overactive imagination – and an _interesting_ one, if the flush of her cheeks is anything to go by. Sadly, past experience has taught Portugal that all the riches of the New World cannot buy explicit details about what, _exactly,_ is wandering across England’s mind, much as he would rather like to know what she’s thinking about this time (it would probably be fun) when she chances a quick emerald glance up at him before going redder (redder _yet_ ), and burying her face again.

It’s sweet, and it makes Portugal’s smile crook upwards, bringing out the naughty child in him to tease the _innocent_ maid. He brushes a kiss over England’s bent head once more, another to her temple, a third to the warmth of her red, red ear, murmuring: “The last time _we_ had ‘a roll in the hay,’ as you put it, _you_ were wearing breeches. And fashions change so quickly; if you wish me to keep up with _yours_ better, we should go to bed more often.”

_“Don’t say that so casually!”_

“Why not? There is no-one around but us and the horses to hear.” Portugal just grins when England grumbles something indecipherable into his chest, nuzzling the side of her head affectionately. His desire has long since been tinged with amusement, tempered into easy tenderness that still wants, wants and _wants,_ kept stoked with the warmth of England pressed all along him, her leg hooked around him as she still straddles his thigh. “Do you not like me to ask you to come to bed, Inglaterra?” His voice drops further. “Or is it that you would prefer to do the asking?”

There’s a pause. A pause, and then England lifts her pink face, lifting one hand from Portugal’s cravat to gently touch his jaw. Her expression is… _complex,_ difficult to read, but her lips quirk when Portugal smiles and kisses her fingertips, the digits stroking his cheek.

“Alas,” she says, and _something_ in the smooth dip in her tone holds Portugal enthralled, catching the thread of _promise_ lingering about England’s words, “we are nowhere near a bed, so I can hardly bring you to one. But later…”

“Later?” he asks, pulse spiking anew.

England’s smile grows, and the weight of her hands on him feels pleasantly possessive. “I won our race earlier, did I not? You owe me a _prize_ , good sir, and I intend to claim it from you thoroughly.”

 _Ah._ “I will pay,” Portugal vows to her, kisses her mouth fervently once more. _“Gladly_ will I pay.”

It takes a great deal of wriggling and shifting about to get England’s boots, garters and hose off without anyone getting an elbow or knee jammed in an uncomfortable place, but they manage it, laughing between kisses of relief once their task is complete at the ridiculousness of it all – or perhaps, just at themselves. Portugal’s cravat, too, falls at last, undone from his neck so that when he hoists England up against the tree more firmly (Portugal staunchly ignoring the short and rather nasty sound of rending fabric that comes from the back of England’s doublet he _hopes_ she hasn’t noticed since she’s too busy kissing him) she can touch skin, sweeping his hair back behind his shoulders to kiss the bob of his throat, his chin, and, when he lifts her higher still, both her legs wrapping around his waist as the tree and his lower half take her weight, rather impishly, his nose.

She arches, feline, when Portugal opens his breeches and rubs himself against her wet sex, spreading her open with his fingers and the swollen crown of his cock. But, wet and flush between her legs or not, England has narrow hips and a narrower waist, and her breath hisses out between her teeth when Portugal carefully pushes into her, her hands tightening on his shoulders. He tries to take it slowly but the downward pull of the earth and their awkward positioning works against him, them, and England’s breath is harsh before he is even halfway inside her, his prick wrapped in a slick tightness that is probably nothing on what _England_ is feeling, but makes Portugal wince with more than a little empathy into her shoulder.

Perhaps they should have saved this for when they finally found a bedroom, when they both could have undressed all the way and taken things slow, Portugal spreading England out across a bed and spending all afternoon easing his stubborn lover open with gentle insistence, fingers and tongue, to breaking, begging, before thinking to take her. It has been a while (God, it has been a _while_ ), and this is wonderful but reckless –

“You think too loudly,” England complains, and tugs the hair at the nape of Portugal’s neck, urging him to look up at her, “and at _entirely_ inappropriate moments.”

“Querida -” he starts, only for his words to break off with a distressed sound when the grip of England’s legs around his waist tightens, pulling him deeper inside of her.

England freezes immediately – a feat, since it means she takes so much of her weight on her own shoulders against the tree. “Have I hurt you?”

Portugal stares at her. “…Have _you_ hurt _me?_ ”

“If that is why you paused – and then just now -” There’s a crease made by confusion between England’s brows. It smoothes itself out, slowly, as she looks into Portugal’s eyes, startled understanding dawning across her features like the morning sunrise nudging itself into a dim bedroom, that first gold flash through the window. “You thought you had hurt _me?_ I.” She breathes out. Considers before speaking again: “I think I’m actually astounded at your ego.”

“My ego?” Portugal is confused, but realisation floods through him with a sudden _blush_ when England raises one eyebrow, one corner of her mouth lifting into a teasing grin to match as she very pointedly glances _down._ Where he is still inside of her. “ _That_ is not _ego_!”

“You give it another name?”

“ _Sim!_ I – _no,_ I -” Portugal can feel his cheeks beginning to burn, heat to match the red of England’s doublet, and he groans, dropping his face into her shoulder again and imploring, “Inglaterra, _why_ must you do these things when we are busy like this?” He cannot feel her laughing at him. He _cannot._

England has moved one hand back to his hair, petting it like she would a spoilt cat. She’s fond of doing so, and the gesture seems to soothe her as much as him. “We _were_ busy, but then you paused.”

“I thought I was hurting you!” Portugal cannot help but sound more than a little wounded, male pride around his ankles with most of their cast-off clothing. Is it so wrong to be a concerned lover? “I would not hurt you if I could help it, not for all the world.”

He is aware a moment after the words loose themselves from his lips that that is a difficult vow for a Nation to stand by – _especially_ when it has not been so long, for them, since they stood on opposite sides of an alliance, Portugal’s opponents decided for him by those going after the wealth of the King of Spain.

England knows it too. “…Even when I deserve it?” she asks him, a queer note in her curiosity.

They have arguments, as any two Nations do. There are times when Portugal had been furious with her, and her him. There will, no doubt, be times when they are furious at each other again. But –

Portugal looks up at her, to meet the soft wavering of searching green. England’s palm has stilled on his nape. “If I could help it, I would not hurt you. And I certainly do not wish to hurt you now.”

“You’re not,” says England, and smiles at him, more than a little pink herself, “and you were not. I would have _said_ if you were, trust me.”

“Trusting you often gets me in so _much_ trouble.” They are not so old, and already this is an understatement.

England pushes herself away from the trunk a little so she can wrap her arms more securely around Portugal’s neck. The movement simultaneously pulls Portugal further into her – his erection, having flagged a little during the conversation, very pointedly reminds him of its existence when their hips collide, stiffening once more as it slides deeper into tight warmth – and lets England affectionately bump noses with him, her smile close and secret near his, somewhere between fond and wicked.

A long curl of her hair brushes his cheek. “But it _is_ fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun,” says Portugal, a little wry, but certainly more than a little wicked himself. That would not be the word he would have chosen to describe the merry paths the darling creature in his arms has led him down before, but something of it suits all the same.

 _“Fun,_ ” England confirms, and when she kisses Portugal again both of them are smiling, halfway to laughing against each other’s mouths like fools ten times younger than they both are.

Portugal adjusts his grip on England to hold her better, use some of that strength he gained on the decks of his ships, in the New World, sliding his hand up her bare leg and behind her rump, bringing them both back to the assistant in their blithe recklessness: the tree. England’s back hits it again to the sound of her rather breathless _oh,_ and Portugal pins her there, between the tree-trunk and himself, her red skirts a heavy mess over his arm, around his thighs.

With the support behind her again England can rock back against him suggestively – and she does, urging him to move against her, to fuck her slow and steady with her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. The cloth of her shirt still brushes his cheeks, tickles his jawline, her grip strong around his shoulders as she uses him as an anchor and pushes down against his thrusts. The tree bark is no doubt doing horrific things to the back of her doublet, to both the gold of her beautiful brocade and the gold of her hair, but England is careless in taking her pleasure, warm and wet around his prick as she moves back against Portugal with an insistence to match his. England’s body speaks a language that needs no prior translation in Portugal’s head before it makes sense; the sounds reverberating in her flushed throat under his mouth are all wordless pleasure, nails digging into his scalp as he scratches over her pulse with his teeth, his mouth hard at the shallow _v_ of flushed skin her shirt and doublet let show with her cravat gone. (She’ll have bruised kisses ‘round her throat like a necklace for the evening, and the both of them shall be another five minute scandal in her most licentious Court, gossip for a little while until another bigger topic comes along.)

“ _There_ ,” she orders him, breathless, when Portugal thrusts deep into her, grinds their hips together with his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh, arse. England’s arms tighten around his neck even as her slick walls ripple around his cock, try to pull him deeper into her, her mouth a fervent moving mess against his ear, cheek, just on the demanding side of begging against the corner of his lips as she pushes back hard into his grasp. “Like th- _there,_ Port. Port -”

God, she feels like heaven. Portugal manages _Ingla-_ and then the woman is kissing him, messy and clumsy but still well enough to make Portugal drag his mouth away from England’s after a few minutes, seconds, forever with a heaving gasp, his world tilting dangerously as air rasps too dry in his throat – and not _enough_ of it when he’s holding up his lover as well as himself. Harder, harder into England, up against the tree, Portugal all but fucks her into the trunk with his cock and his hands and hips. _Deus,_ he must be flattening her now but England keeps pulling at him all the same, arching against him needily until Portugal can feel the buttons of her doublet digging into him, the push of her breasts and ribs against his heaving own when she draws breath.

Portugal fucks her faster, barely pulling out now as she shivers, shudders, clenches around him in a way that makes him ache all over, a wringing tightness that spirals through him from his cock, belly, up to the pounding of his heart and back down again until the weight settles stronger than ever in his balls and he’s fit to bursting. He’d like to say he could usually do this with more _finesse_ , but England’s nails are scratching at the back of his neck again, dragging at his shirt, catching common sense by the feel of it and cutting it short before it can reach Portugal’s brain. Sharp sweet _sensation_ urges his mouth to her tempting mouth again, to the soft skin under her chin, against her jaw. He can taste her, feel her, red mouth, flushed skin, red, gold, pink, _red,_ salt and iron and roses, the sound of skin against skin lost in the sound of Portugal’s heartbeat rushing in his head, England’s gasps ( _his_ gasps) against him, the cloth of England’s skirts sounding for all the world like waves crashing on the beach as Portugal fucks her, rucks them up and forgets about them grabbing at the Nation beneath.

England moans when she comes, burying the sound in a searing kiss that echoes through Portugal’s bones. The rippling pulse of her around him makes his own headlong rush to orgasm that much _better,_ wetter, slicker, the heat England is giving off in his arms burning Portugal’s nerves to bliss, warming the air he manages to drag into his lungs between England’s lips and his own until everything flares at last to a crescendo and he, too, comes (thinks wildly, stupidly, _my ego is_ warranted, _obrigado_ ), spilling himself into England and forgetting for one long shivering second _everything_ but beautiful, blissful release.

“…God,” is the first word that makes sense to Portugal when his mind breaks through the clouds filling his head with hazy sunshine, his mouth pressed to the slowly slowing pulse above England’s collarbone where he’d bowed his head when he came, her voice stirring through him.

“ _Sim,”_ Portugal rather dazedly agrees – and gives up on his legs and England’s warm solid weight bearing down on him at last, sliding as carefully down to his knees as he can just as they are, England’s skirts and petticoats spilling in a silken rustle over his lap until they both sit in a nest of their own discarded clothing. “Sim,” again, and doing the only thing that seems intelligent right at that very moment, lifting his head to taste the soft content _hmm_ of England’s response in another gentle kiss.

Her cheeks are still full of blush, her mouth still flushed with kissing, and the smile she’s wearing right now feels like sunshine in the dappled shade the tree offers them from the sun in the sky. England is between Portugal and the tree trunk; the grip of her legs has loosened around him, her feet skidding out rather playfully on the grass either side of his waist, but she is still wrapped around and leaning into him, both of them getting their breath back, building, just right now, their own warm little world.

“…We should go riding more often,” says Portugal, and just laughs when England half-heartedly swats his shoulder, somehow finding just a little more blood in her to blush pink anew.

Portugal will never understand English propriety.

He lets himself relax, sag, sighing the very last of his poise out of him and leaning into England, into the support of the tree behind her, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. The throat of her shirt still gaping from his hasty grip before he turns his mouth back to her skin again, lightly kissing the slope of her neck in thanks – and then quietly rumbles his pleasure as, above him, England relaxes further as well, laying her cheek against his crown. Her fingers start idly threading through his hair again, cradling the base of his skull even as they stroke soothingly over the scratches she has left at his nape.

…She really _does_ like petting him like that, doesn’t she. Maybe he should get her a cat.

Warm, tired, petted, and content, Portugal dozes off. He doesn’t know for how long – he cannot see how the sun has moved in the sky in the shelter of the copse – but England is still on his lap, still holding him when he drifts back to wakefulness, now humming something old and soft and low against his hair, like a lullaby she might hum when the tiny colonies in her care are on the threshold of sleep. It sounds like spring and a childhood forgotten, and she drops notes here and there, seemingly too serene to bother hurrying after them.

He must move or smile or do something, for England realises Portugal is awake almost as soon as he himself notices the fact, the humming pausing though she continues to wind one of his curls about her finger.

“Nice nap?”

There are things Portugal could say to that – complimentary, for the most part, since his slumber had taken him away for a little while to a peaceful place with no kings, no wars over territory, no difficult siblings. No _talking._ There is just sunlight, England’s warmth, and the sound of the wind in the leaves and through the long grass, two heartbeats and the horses whickering to one another by the pool. For now, Portugal is content.

So he snuggles even further into England, slowly spreading his hands at her waist. “…Come home with me and be my pillow.” England’s laughter is immediate, vibrating against Portugal’s ribcage, so he _sulks_ into her neck, his breath huffing out of his nose. “You could at least _pretend_ to consider it.”

“But I know you too _well_ for that,” says England. “And you know as well as I that if you kidnap me -”

Portugal nudges her. “As a former privateer, I thought you preferred the term _borrow?_ ”

England nudges him right back. “The _political_ term is _borrow._ When privateering, the realistic _meaning_ is _lend without any intent to give back._ So if you _kidnap_ me -”

 _“Borrow._ ”

“Oh, _fine_.” England lifts her chin from his crown, flicking the back of his head. “You know as well as I do that if you _borrow_ me there is absolutely no way I will be visiting my charge in the New World, who I promised to visit this summer, before _autumn._ At least.” Portugal lifts his own head at that, eyebrows raised. “Yes, at _least._ For someone as incorrigible as you, you have the remarkable talent of getting people lost en-route to your bedroom.”

Portugal’s eyebrows go higher, and he raises a hand to gesture eloquently about them. “Bedroom…?” As their afternoon so far has perfectly proven, they really, really, _really_ do not require a bedroom. For his future plans, certainly, visiting one wouldn’t be _bad –_

England flicks him again, disturbing Portugal’s downward-spiralling line of thought. “Go ask the United Provinces if you want a pillow so badly. Perhaps you can solve _both_ our issues with the wretch.”

Portugal grimaces. “I think he would rather _smother_ me with a pillow than be one.” A pillow filled with _rocks,_ at that. Each one labelled _New Holland_ and as pointily edged as the young Dutch Nation who is so busy trying to take over the outlying parts of the Portuguese Empire.

(Spain had made a monster out of that one.)

“My heart bleeds for you,” says England dryly, as though Portugal could have _possibly_ forgotten she has recently embarked upon her third war of the century with their mutual acquaintance. The English and the Dutch are as hopeless as each other, truly (and can be as much of a nuisance as each other to _Portugal_ when they slink in and take his trade).

“Ah,” says Portugal, and, grinning, steals a kiss from England’s mouth quick enough that she does not have the time to flick him for it again or turn away, “but that means I have it still.”

His love makes up for it by shoving her hand in his face, embarrassed. “…Do you even _listen_ to yourself?”

Portugal’s grin just grows brighter and he affectionately bumps his head forward into the palm splayed across his cheek, letting his tone turn mock-thoughtful. “I _used_ to, I think, but a pretty, caustic little love of mine told me to stop being so narcissistic.”

“Are you sure they did not just tell you to stop talking before they smacked you?”

Portugal opens his eyes wide, smile drooping so he can adopt the look of the saintly innocent. “I could _never_ presume to know what goes on inside my beloved’s head.”

England does not look convinced. “Really? Not the slightest inkling?”

“I am all at sea.”

She snorts. “This from the Nation who named himself after a _port._ ”

“Mm,” Portugal’s smile returns, all sweetness and deliberate fluttering lashes as he tips his head and kisses each fingertip once spread against his cheek, England’s shrewd gaze flickering rather warily between the promises of his eyes and the press of his mouth. “Those like us can be named for so many strange things over the years, can we not? Our dreams, our founding cities…” He slides his hands up the waist of England’s doublet, avoiding the catch of thread to curl his fingers around her arms, his palms pressing firmly against the billowing fabric there until he finds the curve of her muscles beneath, the sharp bend of the limbs where forearm and upper arm meet. “The pointy Angles we elbow people with.”

Rolling her eyes at him, England gives the third sharp _flick_ at Portugal’s head that he had avoided before. “You know as well as I that those were a _people_ and I am not named after my _elbows,_ you ridiculous princock.”

“Really?” He had known already, but. Such disappointment. “But they are such marvellous elbows.”

England cups his cheek and kisses Portugal – he thinks – simply to shut him up, her teeth tugging reprovingly on the swell of his lower lip when he grins too noticeably into the motion. With the cloth of her skirts rustling around them, between them, he surges forward to distract her from her determination to school him – and, forgetting certain key details, succeeds a little _too_ well, England gasping into his mouth at the sudden movement of his hips beneath hers, her legs still spread either side of his waist and his softened prick still buried deep inside her.

…Not so soft, grinding up against her like that, and certainly not so soft when England shoots him one of those lovely dark looks she keeps for when he’s done something vexing and yet she still wants to drag him to bed.

“…Perdão?” Portugal offers her more than a little insincerely, once more an irrepressible naughty child. “As minhas desculp- _ai!”_

Unimpressed, England has taken his _nose,_ pinching it very firmly between thumb and forefinger with her nails digging in just enough Portugal cannot help but give her a piteous look, brought in abruptly to heel.

“Meu _coração,_ ” he whines, although the words come out stuffy with his nose blocked. He reaches up instinctively to relieve the pressure on his face, but his hands drops again when England gives his nose a sharp tug, settling instead for muttering a congested-sounding, “Tyrant.”

“Both heart and tyrant in the span of two breaths,” says England, amusement colouring her voice. “I’d say that says more about your particular interests than anything about _me,_ my darling.” She releases his nose with one last – gentler – tweak, dropping her gaze and her thumb to drag along his pout. “May I kiss you again, or do you wish to continue acting the fool?”

“ _Just_ kiss?” Portugal asks her, eyebrows lifting.

But England huffs, “Oh, just come _here,_ ” and grabs him, her fingers snarling tight in his hair as her mouth hits hard against his own.

Portugal’s laugh is driven out of him, his head pulled down with the prickle of nails against his scalp and his mouth taken in a slaughter of a kiss. What the lady wants, the lady _gets,_ so Portugal yields and gives, and gives, and _gives_ until he’s dizzy with it and both of them are panting for breath, Portugal, harder than ever, rocking up unthinkingly into England’s warmth as she clutches at his neck and shoulders.

She sighs when he sucks kisses into her throat, and the hand of hers not in his hair finds his jaw, thumb circling it until the tenseness there goes lax with pleasure. Portugal’s mouth softens down England’s neck, tasting clean sweat and musky perfume against his tongue where her neck curves into her shoulder, and brings his hand up to fumble with the buttons of the top of England’s doublet to give him more skin to explore. The buttons come undone reluctantly, but Portugal frees just enough of them so that he can push aside England’s shirt collar, drag teeth down supple skin – and, he realises rather opportunistically when he notices the space opening the buttons has left him, slip his hand inside England’s doublet to cup her right breast in his palm. Her shirt is still in the way of course, chemise and stay as well, but the clothes are thin enough to let through the warmth of England’s skin, hot so close to her beating heart.

The noise England makes at the back of her throat at that sounds almost like a _purr_ – and the strum of it drops like a hot stone into Portugal’s belly, curling tight as a noose around his cock as England instinctively pushes her chest harder into the curve of his palm. His other hand finds England’s waist, urging her into slowly rolling her hips atop him, and Portugal feels himself swell within her again.

England’s eyelashes flutter, her pupils black and dark beneath them, and the muscles of her thighs tense and relax against Portugal’s sides as she moves. Her skirts crumpling into a mess, England brings her knees closer to herself, hooking her legs behind Portugal’s body as the bare soles of her feet drag through the grass.

Portugal can feel a quip about _riding_ bubbling up from someplace wicked inside of him. England would probably kick him for it – continue grinding down against him, but definitely still kick him for it – so Portugal bites his tongue, lets his hand slide from England’s waist to the small of her back, his fingers straying to her rear.

There isn’t enough room between their bodies for him to reach down and touch her at the front (if he can even find her sex under the endless pile of red _skirts_ ). Since the lady doesn’t seem to particularly mind at the moment Portugal settles for enjoying watching England’s face as she moves, the way her cheeks colour and her lips part when it’s good. It certainly feels good for _him_ to be inside of her still, smooth, warm walls squeezing just a little bit more tightly around him every second, the dappled sunlight filtering through the tree leaves moving over her shoulders, moving over them both, cinnamon and sunshine.

It doesn’t take long for England to finish once more. A few quick, harsh little motions against Portugal towards the end bring her desired release, all the breath kept tight in her chest as she crests rushing out of her afterwards, England slowly, woozily laying her head down on Portugal’s shoulder, its weight for now apparently too heavy for her neck.

Fresh warmth spreading through every part of him, Portugal pauses his own movements in consideration, kissing the side of England’s head and brushing away some of the tangled strands of her golden hair so they don’t stick to her cheeks. “...May I?” he asks quietly, when England’s breathing begins to slow to normal.

England nods, her cheek still pressed to his chest so that her _mm_ threads straight into his heartbeat, and her hands slide down the curve of Portugal’s back to grasp the cloth of his doublet, holding him as Portugal resumes rocking upwards into her. He tries to stay gentle, but the strain of waiting at _almost_ for a while makes his movements more rough and ragged than before, gasping into England’s hair as he moves his hips in short jerky thrusts and, finally, comes, another flood of warm sticky wetness between them.

They stay like that for a while; Portugal doesn’t think either of them know for exactly _how_ long. England seems quite content on his lap and in his arms and Portugal has absolutely no problems returning the sentiment, his mind still drifting in a happy, post-orgasmic haze and his body tired and thoroughly sated. When England stirs and lifts her head up again from snuggling him, Portugal does what every softened inch of him longs for him to do and kisses her again, slow and sweet and smiling, utterly smitten.

“...I’m not moving,” England warns him between kisses, all the warmth of the sunlight dappling over them caught in her eyelashes, in her smile against Portugal’s mouth, flush to happy flush when she nuzzles drowsily against his cheek. “Oh, ever again, I think. Let’s just...” Another kiss that neither of them can tell who begins, inevitable as one’s eyes slipping shut for sleep, like finding like like the laws of affinity say.

“A convincing argument,” Portugal tells her, and laughs at her grumbled _oh, shut up._

Still very much occupied with his company, Portugal reaches rather blindly for his coat and the handkerchief in its pockets, dragging the blue cloth back across the grass towards him and picking up a few twigs and battered flower petals along the way. The handkerchief is produced fairly free of damage and bits of countryside, clean enough to offer to the lady to dab away the sweat on her brow, that has collected, during their exertions, in the hollow of her throat.

England’s throat, however, is hardly the part of them most in need of cleaning – something made quite evident when she shifts on Portugal’s lap, rising up a little way to gather her legs beneath her, and a slow, embarrassingly sticky trickle of _something_ moves quite noticeably between them, under her skirts, in the place where they are still joined.

England turns pink. Portugal can feel his own cheeks warming as well, smiling somewhat ruefully when he catches England’s eye.

England just coughs, ducking her head as she tries to gather her skirts up so she can stand. “Look at the mess you made.”

“Yes,” says Portugal, monotone, as he helps her up. “The mess I made. All by myself.”

England, it seems, can blithely ignore sarcasm when it suits her. “I love that we can so easily agree on things.”

She peels away from Portugal rather reluctantly, scooping back the rest of her long hair behind her shoulders before attempting to tidy the rest of her appearance, Portugal’s handkerchief both captive and sacrifice for her comfort and cleanliness as she overcomes self-consciousness with simple practicalities. Not bothering to rise, Portugal sees to his own state of dress whilst she’s occupied. It’s an easier task for one without skirts, since all he has to do is retuck himself and tie closed his breeches, so he stretches out his legs on the grass as well, easing out the cramp that had been building in his muscles from staying in one position for too long and finding himself a new seat, his back against the tree-trunk.

Once they have tidied what they _are_ still wearing, their discarded clothes and undone buttons hardly seem to matter. Though she is as barefoot as a peasant child in the grass, England now seems at ease going to fetch their lunch from the saddlebags of their horses, padding back with their food and canteens to promptly curl up on Portugal’s lap once more (burying his lower half, again, in her skirts), her back to his chest and her head settling comfortably on his shoulder.

Curling his arms around her again, Portugal props his chin serenely on her crown. “Querida, did you invite me riding just to be your cushion for the day?”

England snorts, busy unwrapping their food from its protective cloths, laying them out upon her bent knees like one arranging the table. “I can think of a great many less troublesome cushions to take along than _you,_ love, if that were the case.” A piece of cold cooked lamb falling apart from the rest of the carved slice it was hanging to in its wrappings, she offers the chunk of meat to Portugal over her shoulder – which he obligingly eats straight from her hand. It’s good: tender and lightly salted. “Ones much less likely to make such a mess of my – and his own – clothes that all the Court will be set to gossiping when we go riding back.”

“Courts are always gossiping,” Portugal says, and nudges behind England’s ear with his nose until she reaches up with another chunk of lamb for him to eat. (She smells like cinnamon behind her ear too, the scent no doubt spread from her wrist to the cut of her jawline when tucking back her hair.) Since England’s _hmm_ does not sound convinced, once he has chewed and swallowed, he adds: “Perhaps we should tell them we were set upon by bandits.”

England makes a wounded noise, though her expression is hardly serious when she lazily lets her head roll back against his shoulder. There is mischief in her eyes again, green glowing like trouble in the springtime sunshine. “ _Bandits_ , sir? In _my_ fair kingdom? I shall have you know that every Englishman born upon this sceptered isle is just as honest as I am.”

Ever obliging to a lady – and this lady in particular -, Portugal amends his earlier proposition. “ _Hordes_ of bandits.”

England takes the next piece of lamb away from Portugal right before he can eat it, and pops it into her own mouth to chew upon instead. _Thief_. “We shall simply have to never return at all, and take up banditry to support ourselves.”

“As though _some_ of us have not started doing that on the seas already -” England pulls another chunk of lamb away from Portugal’s lips meaningfully. “I am admiring your talents!” England _mmhmm_ s at him, and Portugal pouts. “Minha gazela, meu coração, amor da minha _vida,_ you are a cruel and terrible person to me.”

England still doesn’t give him the meat. “And you mock _all_ my great plans, but how else do you propose we keep you in the manner to which you have become accustomed?”

“...Since you _ask_ ,” Portugal says, stretching out his neck for the food his lover is still holding teasingly just out of reach of his mouth, “ _first_ , you feed me.”

England snorts again, murmuring something that sounds very much like _priorities,_ but takes the hint, bringing the lamb to Portugal’s mouth and letting him take it from her fingers with his teeth. Who knows, they might make it onto their bread and fruit at some point.

Portugal swallows. “And second –”

“There’s a _list_?”

“ _Second_ ,” says Portugal, nudging England from behind again to get her to stop laughing at him, the not-quite-there sound he can hear warm in the back of her throat, and wraps his arms more securely around her slender waist, “you just stay here, like this. With me.”

Busy tearing apart their meal into smaller chunks, England pauses. Glances back at Portugal. “How do you always...”

Portugal watches her expectantly, but England doesn’t seem to want to continue voicing that particular line of thought to him, inscrutably dismissing it with a shake of her head. She carefully gathers up their lunch in all its wrappings instead, setting the lot of it to the side on the grass and wiping her hands before wriggling around a little in her seat on Portugal’s thighs, enough so that she can cup his cheeks between her palms and not look at him back-to-front or upside-down.

...She looks far too solemn for such a prettily rumpled wild thing. England’s shirt is creased and her leonine doublet is still unbuttoned all down her kiss-marked throat, and the strands of her hair, with his, are being blown giddily askew by the playful breeze blowing through the copse.

“You were right the other day, you know,” she says.

“ _Hã_?” Portugal can recall saying a _lot_ of things the other day. (A great many of them to do with feeling like an abandoned puppy after one’s sweetheart disappears to do frivolous things like write her war correspondence when she _could_ have been being kissed dizzy instead.)

“Yes,” England confirms, and smiles arrow-quick enough that Portugal barely catches the curve of her lips before she kisses him, firm and warm and thrilling, and not at all for as long as he would wish. They should do it again. “You _are_ a very bad example.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the historical references:
> 
>  
> 
> [The Third Anglo-Dutch War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch_Republic)/England’s French/Dutch letters: an Anglo-French coalition against the Dutch Republic, beginning in April 1672 and part of the longer [Franco-Dutch War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franco-Dutch_War) going on at the same time.
> 
>  
> 
> Portugal’s issues with the Dutch Republic during this time period can largely be summed up with the earlier [Dutch-Portuguese War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch%E2%80%93Portuguese_War). Both the English and the Dutch had profited from the Portuguese being part of the Iberian Union with Spain: the Portuguese had found it harder to defend/maintain their empire and trade routes under Spanish Hapsburg rule, and, since the Spanish were (frequent) Anglo-Dutch enemies, England and the Dutch Republic had chipped away at Portuguese overseas territories and trade with very few qualms. At one point the Dutch attempted (and ultimately failed) to take control of Brazil (see: [New Holland](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch_Brazil)), which particularly rankled the Portuguese. During the Iberian Union, England assisted the Dutch in the Dutch-Portuguese War. When Portugal declared independence from the Union, the English re-established their alliance with the Portuguese.
> 
>  
> 
> Catherine’s brothers: [King Afonso VI](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afonso_VI_of_Portugal), and Prince Regent Pedro (later: [Pedro II](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_II_of_Portugal)). Afonso was partially paralysed and mentally unstable, and, when his younger brother, Pedro, gained political ascendancy over him and was appointed regent, was banished to the Azores in 1668.
> 
>  
> 
> The monarchical ‘hiccup’: the execution of Charles I, and the subsequent formation of the short-lived Commonwealth of England.
> 
>  
> 
> The joke about _Lisbon_ : Charles II and some of his courtiers, making some rather drunken toasts to the good health of their Portuguese queen, Catherine/Caterina of Braganza/Portugal in general, couldn’t come up with a good rhyme for Lisbon in English. So the stories say, in walked [John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/john-wilmot) (a poet so bawdy he got booted out of Court on numerous occasions, and then brought back again because there was no-one as entertaining), who came out with this:  
>  _A health to Kate!_  
>  _Our sovereign’s mate,_  
>  _Of the royal house of Lisbon;_  
>  _But the Devil take Hyde,_  
>  _And the bishop beside_  
>  _Who made her bone his bone._
> 
>  
> 
> The title is likewise lifted from a segment of Rochester’s _To Love_ , which is a poetic translation of _Ovid’s Amores 2.9._  
>  _No! Might I gain a godhead to disclaim_  
>  _My glorious title to my endless flame,_  
>  _Divinity with scorn I would forswear,_  
>  _Such sweet, dear, tempting mischiefs women are._
> 
>  
> 
> [This is the inspiration for England’s white satin Court dress.](http://www.wga.hu/html_m/n/netscher/caspar/shuygens.htm) For comparison, here are some examples of the style of dresses the Spanish/Portuguese Court ladies were wearing around the same time ([here](http://www.gogmsite.net/iberian_dress_in_the_1600s/subalbum_infanta_margarita/1665-infanta-margarita.html) and [here](http://www.gogmsite.net/iberian_dress_in_the_1600s/subalbum_infanta_margarita/1665_infanta_magarita_teres.html)).
> 
>  
> 
> [Here](http://jeannedepompadour.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/ladies-in-habits-1660-1700-frances.html) are some examples of women’s riding habits from the later seventeenth century. The cut and style of England’s riding habit is largely based upon Mary of Modena’s one, though the colour and embroidery are entirely different.  
> The reason that Portugal is so concerned about the state of the embroidery on England’s doublet is that embroidery-work on clothing for all sexes (and especially for the better-off) could be incredibly intricate, and was frequently highly layered. ([Here](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/465418942712957846/) is an example for the time period, although it is worth pointing out that this piece in question is unusual because both the doublet and the embroidery are done in the same colour and material.)
> 
>  
> 
> A general idea of Portugal’s clothes during this period, [here](http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/437173?rpp=20&pg=9&ao=on&ft=horse&when=A.D.+1600-1800&pos=168), [here](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Frans_Luycx_008.jpg), and [here](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/398076054534307036/).


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